John’s smile was wry. ‘I think the old lion has had his day. You go, my son. I have confidence in you.’ They embraced. ‘But keep your temper.’

So Henry went to Windsor to disrupt the so-called plot, John brooded behind a wall of silence and I cursed Richard to the fires of hell for his destruction of our happiness.

‘Take care,’ I whispered in Henry’s ear as he prepared to mount. ‘Come back to us.’

For I knew that if his beloved son came to harm, John would be broken. I would have to be strong for both of us.

I would never forgive Richard. I would despise Richard until the day of my death.

September 1398: Gosford Green, Coventry

Holy Mother, I prayed silently, my palm hard around the coral beads restored to my belt. Cast your divine protection over these two men. If Henry dies on this field, it will surely break John’s heart. I cannot bear the anguish for him. And my own…

If I was to act, it must be now.

Seated on the dais, clad in the white and blue of the heavy damask gown I had worn for our mantle ceremony when we had rejoiced in the favour of God and the lords of England, I absorbed the magnificent scene that Richard had created for this day. No one could fault his imagination, or his sense of the dramatic. Or the quality of mischief that rendered him dangerous to the existence of Henry of Derby.

I was close enough to touch Richard’s ermined robe, if I stretched out my arm, and wondered momentarily if he could sense my thoughts. What John’s were I had no idea behind his harsh features. Richard’s were pure malevolence disguised by the benign smile.

I tensed my muscles to obey me.

We were hemmed in by flags and pennons, stamped with the heraldic devices of the aristocracy of England, all overlaid with a wealth of royal symbolism and Richard’s own smoothly smug, gold-coroneted white hart. The canopy over my head fluttered with Plantagenet leopards and Valois fleur-de-lis, casting mottled shadows over my veils and on those of Richard’s French child bride, resplendent in a gown she was clearly delighted in. Her little hands smoothed her velvet skirts in pleasure. Mine clenched, white-knuckled, until I remembered and stretched them, hot palmed against the stiffly embroidered cloth.

At my side, between me and Richard, was John, darkly formal, bejewelled yet austere, every inch King’s counsellor, royal uncle and Duke of Lancaster and Aquitaine. He would not dishonour his dignity or his name by a show of emotion on this terrible day. We were here to witness the quality of royal justice, with fear in our hearts. Richard’s justice could not be trusted. I shivered in the heat, for who could determine the outcome of what we would witness today? I could not. This was to be no formal jousting to entertain the court, no ritualised sword against sword to exhibit the skill of the two combatants. This would be a contest unto death, and it might be that the one to perish was John’s beloved son, Henry of Derby.

How had it come to this? Everything had fallen perfectly into Richard’s hands when Henry and Mowbray had faced each other. Presented with the knowledge that Henry had leaked his confidence to the King, Mowbray in a fit of self-preservation, had promptly accused Henry of treason. Henry had retaliated in kind. A ferocious stand-off ensued which Richard leaped on like a hunting cat. Our puissant king had pronounced that Henry and Mowbray would meet in trial by combat at Coventry, before the whole court. Trial to the death to apportion guilt. Death for one, banishment for the other. Two Lords Appellant obliterated at one blow, to Richard’s seething delight.

So here we sat to witness the culmination of Richard’s plotting.

The two combatants were introduced. Henry and Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, the highest and best of England’s blood, each man furnished with a lance. Despite the warmth of the day, I felt the blood drain from my skin, so much that I thought my face must be white with fear. No whiter than John’s whose expression was carved from granite.

If I was to act it must be now. If John would not petition for mercy for his son, then I must.

‘Will you not appeal to Richard?’ I had asked.

‘No, I will not.’ John had been adamant. ‘I will not impugn my son’s honour, or mine. I will not grovel in the dust when we are innocent of the charges laid against us. Plantagenets do not bend the knee in supplication when the King overrides the law.’

So I must do it.

There, on the dais, skirts billowing, I stood.

Only to find a hand around my wrist, hard and relentless.

‘No.’ John’s denial might reach no one’s ears but mine, but it was formidable.

‘Someone must.’ I would not sit.

‘No.’ How bleak his tone. ‘I know why you wear this today—but it will not serve.’

He touched the solid gold livery collar that lay impressively on the damask, not my own of red and gold, not John’s blue and silver, but Richard’s own, displaying Richard’s white hart on my breast, given to me by the King as a symbol of his high regard, to wear at his wedding to the French girl who sat at his side with such innocent enjoyment when all around her was unbearable tension.

‘It might.’

‘No.’

Still I stood.

‘Katherine. You will not.’ It was the regal command he never used to me, implacable despite the low timbre. ‘You don’t know what predator you might unleash.’

Predator? It was a curious choice of word. ‘I might harness it.’

‘Or set it ablaze with fury.’

The strength in his arm was irresistible, as was the silent message in his gaze that warned me suddenly of things I knew nothing of. And I sat at last. Defiant, disturbed, but defeated by a knowledge greater than mine.

If Richard had noticed, he gave no sign, his eyes narrowed on the men on whom he would be revenged for all past slights. They had taken up their positions at opposite ends of the field. Such inconsequential details I noticed: the stiff wind whipped the flags, tangling their fringes; the plumes on Henry’s helm frisked and bucked. I anchored my veiling with a heavy hand against my neck. John’s eyes were fixed on his son. Richard was smiling.

The lances were not blunt, neither were the swords. This was no court entertainment. One would die. Or be so badly hurt that…

Henry is an expert swordsman, a champion jouster. He will take no hurt.

I could hear John’s breathing, light and shallow, as he sat as controlled as if going into battle himself. And there was the sun glinting from the surface of Henry’s armour, from the burnished coat of his white stallion, one of John’s own with experience in the field, caparisoned in blue and green velvet embroidered with Henry’s deer and swans. Pray God Abrax would carry Henry with all the swiftness and mighty strength of a swan this day.

I looked across at Mowbray in crimson velvet, his sturdy form a splash of brightness, like blood, on the scene. I could not wish him ill, for he was as much a victim of Richard’s vengeance as was Henry.

A blast from the herald’s trumpet signalled to make ready. Henry gathered his reins into one hand, couching his lance against his body with the other. A mighty silence settled on the field, the only sound the snap of fabric. I held my breath, hands once again cramped in my lap in the blue and white folds. In the distance it was impossible to see the muscles bunch in Abrax’s haunches, but I saw them tighten in John’s hand, pressed hard against his thigh. Then began the thunder of hooves, increasing as the great destriers gathered speed.

I felt rather than saw Richard move.

He stepped towards the front of the dais, leaned and snatched the baton from his herald, hurling it onto the ground where it lay and glinted in the dust. Startled, fumbling, the herald caught his wits and blew a shattering blast.

And the combatants reined in, hauling their mounts to a reluctant stand as an expectant silence fell on the field.

‘Approach.’ Richard’s order carried clearly. ‘Kneel, my lords.’

‘He will pardon them,’ I murmured, and grasped John’s sleeve as a tiny seed of hope began to live in my heart, even though the tendons in John’s throat were prominent as he swallowed. ‘He has realised his mistake.’

But John’s mouth clamped like a vice, and seeing it I accepted the truth. There would be no royal goodwill here today, and whatever it was that John feared would come to pass. Today I would learn what it was. I removed my hand. This was his tragedy to face alone, as he would wish.

Richard was speaking. ‘I will have no more of it, my lords. Your disloyalty is an affront to me and a threat to the peace of my kingdom. Here is my decision.’

He paused. When he spoke again his voice was as clear as his herald’s trumpet.

‘For your own past demeanours against my royal person you will depart this land of your birth and live in exile. My lord of Norfolk—I arraign you for life. It is not for you to return except on pain of death. And you, my cousin of Derby—from whom I would have expected honour and loyalty—because of our shared blood and for the affection I bear towards your father, I will soften my judgement: I condemn you to exile for ten years.’

A strange singing tension stretched out around me, as if no one could believe what they had heard. I had been right to be afraid.

‘Before God!’ I heard John murmur.

‘Sire,’ Henry said, his eyes on his father’s masklike face.

‘There is no appeal, my lords. Is not my judgement clear?’

Ten years.

Fury roiled in my belly as I saw the plotting behind this. For here was the glittering prize, the treasure that Richard had always intended to grasp for himself. Ten years. Ten years, with the Lancaster heir and only son exiled. What an opportunity for King Richard to seize the wealth and estates of Lancaster for himself. If John’s health should fail.

For there was my own worry that kept sleep at bay. John’s health was compromised.

Richard’s motives went far beyond punishment of Henry and Mowbray as Lords Appellant. Richard had his eye on a far greater treasure, as John had always known and had kept from me. On John’s death, the heir in exile, Richard would claim the great inheritance as his own. It was as cruel a move as I could envisage. I had not realised, but John had.

John was standing, facing Richard, with no hint of the inner turmoil that shook me in the severity of his expression. His control was superb, marvellous in its courtesy, for all the past goodwill between uncle and nephew, all the care John had lavished on Richard, had been obliterated in that one pronouncement. John faced it with majestic simplicity.

‘My lord, I advise you to reconsider.’

‘What’s that, Uncle? Advice in a matter of treachery? Would you have me be more lenient, for crimes against my person?’

‘I would ask you to show the mercy appropriate to a great king. There has been no charge against my son or my lord of Norfolk. Nor has proof of guilt been shown. It would be an injustice to pass so harsh a judgement.’

‘I know who I can trust, sir.’ Richard was as unpleasantly smooth as a baked custard too long in the eating.

‘Ten years, or a lifetime, is a questionable sentence for a matter unproven.’ John continued to press his argument. ‘It would be ill-advised for the King to show disrespect for the law.’

Richard leaned to clasp John’s shoulder and I saw the gleam in his eye.

‘Is death leaning on your shoulder, Uncle?’ A little smile, disgracefully mimicking compassion. ‘I forget that age creeps up on you, as on us all. So be it. I am of a mind to be lenient, for your sake. Are you not blood of my blood? I will reduce the terms of your son’s banishment.’

‘My thanks, Sire—’

‘To six years.’ Richard all but crowed. ‘Any further requests of my generosity, my lord uncle?’

John bowed gravely, despite his ashen face. ‘I can only express my gratitude for your compassion, Sire.’

I knew his fear, for was it not my own? Six years was as much a life-sentence as ten for John. He might never see his son again. I bore it in my own heart as Richard handed Isabella down from the dais, and as complacent satisfaction cloaked him, I could have stuck his smiling face.

‘He has destroyed me,’ said John, with no inflexion at all, as we walked from the field.

I could not deny it. I feared that that was exactly what Richard had done. Wretchedness kept step with me, a close companion.

After his parting with Henry at Waltham, conducted with stark self-command on both sides, a spectacularly awe-inspiring lack of emotion when the future for John and his son loomed so ominously, John shut himself away in his room at Leicester. Even from me. I wept for him, as I had refused to weep at Henry’s banishment and leave-taking, and then hovered outside his door with growing fury. It remained barred to me as if he could not tolerate my company. One of John’s squires, nameless to me in my emotional turmoil, made his apologies with a set face.